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cchapsticck · 6 months

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A couple things:

The first album he ever owned that he got to choose on his own was Master of Reality when Wayne handed him 5 bucks at the used record store after he picked him up from foster. And he’s pretty sure Children of the Grave changed his brain chemistry. Like something in him got hard re-wired and soldered in place. Like there’s no unfixing that fix.

The first song he ever learned to play on Wayne’s old beater acoustic was Here Comes The Sun, but if anyone asks he says it was Smoke on the Water, which was actually second but the truth is possibly humiliating, considering his curated reputation.

He cannot read music. Which is funny, considering he’s had a “band” since 7th grade. He just kind of picks at shit by ear. Which he’s pretty good at, thank you very much. It's why he likes shit with solos, he can pick out a riff better than he can pick out a chord progression.

Said band did not lock down members with any kind of permanence until 10th and no one had any kind of electrified instrument until 11th because Jeff and Phil and Gareth might be better off than he is - drug money notwithstanding - but tuns out parents aren’t keen to just drop that kind of money so one’s kid can fuck around in another kid’s garage every couple weekends for that kind of price tag

Metal shows are few and far between in Roane County, considering all the ways it is. But the couple no-name bands that have breezed through town at the dive-iest of bars the county has to offer well - he doesn’t want to say, changed his life but - but he’s never been so glad to have been elbowed in the face because everyone’s having a good fucking time and without the accompanying “faggot” attached to the act, which he’s had a repeat performance of just. Generally. In his life outside of the shittest bars in Indiana.

He’s not saying Zepplin II made him gay but Robert Plant’s face pasted onto that German soldier’s body made him feel some kind of way at a formative age and that’s maybe just something he’s going to take to the grave even if apparently the shittiest of shitheads just decided that was a true thing about him on their own.

Steve Harrington has been hot since, like, junior high. Which is horseshit. Because like, first of all. He sucks. Like, he’s a douche. But Barb Holland died and he ended up in the hospital because apparently those two things are related events and rumor has it he got kicked out of his house and he shaved his head about it and there are a shocking number of scars hidden under that disco hair and that, unfortunately, does not make him less hot or less of a douche.

Another thing: Dustin Henderson is fucking annoying. Like annoying in the unremarkable way all nerds are annoying that he’s a little dead to (like sometimes he catches himself mid-tirade and thinks ‘damn, I’d kick my ass too’) so he gets it but also. He’s fucking annoying. He’s fucking annoying about Steve Harrington in particular which like. Hilarious. Go figure.

And he’s got a lot of annoying ammunition in that particular annoying gun, because apparently Harrington’s been living in his basement. So the kicked out thing is probably true. A lot of what he’s got to say is anecdotal. Lives in the basement. Pays rent. Makes dinner for Henderson’s mom. Drives him to school. Owns a bat with nails in it? Which. Alright? That makes about as much sense as anything else going on. The weirdly dense law enforcement presence in the wake of the Holland murder (and those are feds, like, he knows cops, he grew up around a lot of cops - thanks Dad - these are not cops) and the ever evolving whatever-this-is of Steve Harrington which he is for sure paying a normal amount of attention to and not unloading his guts at Gareth and Jeff who for sure don’t want to kick his ass about it because are we all seeing this shit? It's been like 5 years of high school and this is a puzzle he is no closer to solving, as he is no closer to graduating. And it's not because he’s being a dipshit about Harrington’s gradual transformation no matter what Gareth keeps insisting. (he’s being a dipshit about graduating because he’s a dipshit - separate problem)

But like, something is for sure going on with Steve Harrington. And fuck him dead because he is desperate to pick it apart. It's got nothing to do with the horny goblin in his brain barking about the, shall we say, aesthetic realignment here (which maybe, like, is coming for the integrity of his own genre cred but like. Come on, man.) and it's got everything to do with someone like Steve Fucking Harrington willfully abdicating the throne to throw himself amongst the Maligned With Problems The World Will Make Your Fault. Like he had to have known the flavor of hell people like him and Hagan and every other one of those silver spoon fucks made of his life. And not just his, just like, anyone remotely adjacent in the social order.

There’s this kind of unspoken truth at shows. Like metal, hardcore, whatever, any genre within a genre that fills up bars like this, like he’s pretty sure the punks even have this rule, this remains true: the more normal the guy looks the more fucked in the head he is. That guy is dangerous. That guy is working through some shit you cannot even begin to conceive of and this is only outlet he’s got. Like that guy will straight murder you if you come at him wrong in a pit and everyone knows it. You do not fuck with that guy. You do not make eye contact with that guy. So Steve Harrington in his tightass Levi’s and bright white fresh out the 3-pack t-shirt hugging the back wall of the Hideout on a Thursday night sure is a red flag. But red’s always been his favorite color, so-

So he buries his shoulder blades in the wall right next to him and hits him with a of all the gin joints and Steve just squints at him like he’s got no fucking clue what he’s talking about. Figures. Harrington always seemed like a philistine. Steve just runs his hand over his shaved short head, and Eddie swears he can hear the rasp of Steve’s palm over the noise of the bar.

“You come here often?” And it's not not a come on and he’s a little prepared to get decked but it's also a genuine question.

“It’s work.” Steve says, not unkindly but not really looking at him either. Like he’s not really interested in the conversation or Eddie at all.

“It’s work?”

And that gets Steve looking and he does not look impressed. It's cute. Which probably says more about Eddie’s ability to turn disdain into some semblance of private affection but we’re not going to unpack that bag we’re just going to throw the whole suitcase out.

“Well, I can’t work the bar so I just pull people out of the pit. Work the door sometimes.” Steve says over the noise of the bar, by way of explanation.

“How about that?” he says with no small amount of genuine awe. “Mall work not cutting it for you, then?”

Steve just kind of one shoulder shrugs. Not cutting it in the sense that the mall like, fuckin’ burned down but. Y’know. Speaking in kind of a general hypothetical kind of way. Looking for a new career path kind of way. Less about the mall directly. Or at all.

“Yes and no. I got punched less by skinheads at the mall.” and that almost sounds like a joke, like Harrington isn’t totally hating this conversation. Delightful.

“And you’d willingly go into this line of work when Henderson says you can’t win a fight?” he says it like he means it, like he’s actually surprised. Because he is. Because getting laid out at a show is just some shit that happens sometimes. Assholes with something to prove, the wrong guy took an elbow at the wrong time, a drunk got in the pit and doesn’t know the difference between a good time and a fight, like, shit happens.

Steve’s scrunched up face of repulsion and offense is additionally cute.

“Yeah well, Henderson says a lot of shit about you too.”

He may have been operating on the assumption that Steve actually had no idea who he was. And was just some weird guy who, for some reason, had a lot of personal information about him that was in no way reciprocated. Just kind of figured he would have been beneath Harrington’s notice in a big picture kind of way.

Fuck you, Henderson, how dare you.

“Only glowing reviews, I’m sure.”

“More or less.”

Alright he’ll take back point two, then. You’re on thin ice, Henderson.

“Is that where the uh-” and he kind of gestures limply at the pit and then towards the thick, formerly stapled up scarring in Steve’s hairline. Like he’s come home from a show with a bloody nose or a black eye or two but nothing like that.

“No.”

It's the finality in his tone, when he says it that makes him suspect he’s fucked this up and the conversation is over.

And it is.

So he hangs around the bar for the set and then he leaves and its not really all that interesting.

But he thinks about that for a while, that something rattled Steve Harrington’s cage so hard he’s this now. Somewhere in the realm of quietly fucked up, and on the edges of good sensibility and good taste because its more comfortable out of a spotlight. Even if the dark on the edge of that pool of light is more than a little dangerous, but at least there’s a place to hide.

And then Chrissy Cunningham dies on his ceiling and he has to keep hiding.

#i wrote this thing like a billion years ago when punk!steve was going around and this was the closest i could get to it #while still feeling authentic #character wise anyway idk #i think i had other plans for it but i don't remember them now #so i cleaned it up and here it is yall can have it now #prompts #steddie #steddie fanfiction #steveddie #steddie fic #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #punk!steve #steddie au #stranger things fic #steve x eddie #steddie fics #i've been trying other creative outlets and just getting mad so i decided to clean up wips i figure would never see the light of day

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leahnardo-da-veggie · 18 days

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Grass

Alright, I promised gore and horror, and I have come to deliver! TW: gore, a brief mention of rape and cannibalism, and a lot of torture (some relating to genitalia)

Olive trailed her fingernails down the hallway, humming a little song. Today was a good day, she decided. It was a day to visit one of her old toys.

She'd forgotten its name. It was an it, of course. Once, it had been a she, though. A long, long time ago, she had sutured its vagina shut, holding it down and pouring thick window sealant into the gaping, disgusting hole. Watching as the liquid slowly hardened, erasing its femininity. By then, it was too broken to scream. Only the sweetest little whimpers emerged from its toothless mouth.

She swung the door open with pizzazz. “Hello, darling,” she announced.

The toy was curled up in a fetal position, its chest barely moving. When it heard her words, it tensed up. Rheumy eyes looked at her dolefully, and it crawled to her, pulling itself forward with its deformed limbs.

She inspected each one carefully. Its right arm had been broken after it had dared to try to pick the door, and she had forgotten to set it back properly. Now, it dragged uselessly on the floor.

Its left arm was still wrapped in barbed wire, the rusty spikes staining its delicious ruby flesh. How had that happened, again? Olive forgot things, sometimes.

She ran her fingers through its ragged clumps of hair. Skin flaked off. The toy was really on its last legs. Not physical legs, however, she thought, smiling to herself. Those had been torn off and roasted long ago.

No, these were its mental legs. There came a time when her toys finally broke, and lost the will to live. She was always impressed by how long they held out, nonetheless. Months of abuse and torture and all other kinds of fun, and they still believed someone would save them, in the very end. This one has survived a year, as she counted it. The longest any had.

Now, though? She'd had enough. It irritated her, to watch it survive so long. It had hardened, grown used to the pain. The squeals lacked the same delightful terror, the helpless, glorious fear that she so desired. “Sweetie,” she murmured. “I think it's time for you to go.”

It looked up at her, lipless jaws hanging slack. So it was listening, after all. She had wondered, sometimes. It seemed to have no brain, after all.

She admired the red, bleeding, toothless gums gums as she said, “Didn't you know this day would come? I'm done with you. I've got better toys now.” Letting out a laugh, she added, “Fear not, however. I will make sure your end is sweet. It is the least I can do, after all.”

She kicked it, just to watch it collapse back onto the floor. Its one good arm convulsed as the barbed wire dug into it. “Come on,” she told it, kicking her door wide open for it. “Let's go now, sweetie.”

The confused hope in its eyes made her giggle with delight. Oh, did it truly think it was going to be released? Did it think it could have a life, without a nose, fingernails or any ability to speak? Even if she tossed it into the lands above, it would realise that in the end, it was better off with her, where it had a purpose. She briefly toyed with the idea of showing it a mirror, and letting it see how worthless it had become.

“Why the hell not, actually?” She smiled down at it. Grabbing its thick leather collar, she hauled it down the hallway, to her bedroom. It was light, malnourished. She had cut off its breasts, leaving two ugly wounds. They festered with maggots, just like the rest of her. Honestly, she thought with some irritation, if it didn't want to go hungry, it should have just eaten the maggots and the lice. It was not as though she had just left it to starve, after all.

Olive's bedroom was nicer than the rest of the abandoned hospital, and she had no wish for her rug to be filthied by the toy's feces and vomit, so she dragged the mirror out.

“There we go, darling,” she whispered. “I wonder, what do you see?”

“An emaciated, disgusting creature, caked in bodily fluids of every kind? What about your former self? Do you see that girl in those sunken, half-blind eyes? Do you see her in your stumpy legs? What about her fingers? I remember you had such pretty painted nails when I first saw you.” Olive fished through a drawer and pulled out a little glass box. “Look, I kept them for you! Aren't they pretty?”

The toy stared blankly at her hands. The nail polish still shone, though it flaked in some places. “Uh,” it croaked. “Uah.”

Was it trying to speak? Had she finally prompted it to feel hope again? Olive snickered. It would make her endgame all the sweeter, if it did. “Yes, darling,” she whispered in its ear. “I suppose you still think you're a person, within that worthless husk. But you're not, sweetie. I hate to break it to you. You're my toy, no more and no less. And now you're not even going to be that.”

It looked up at her, limp strands of blonde hair falling over its eyes. “Uuh,” it groaned. “Uhh.”

Olive shrugged. “People speak, dearie. You don't. I wonder what they're going to do with you, outside. Will they try to fix you?” She stepped on its head absentmindedly, slamming its face down into the floor as she walked back out into the hallway. Pity it no longer had a nose. The sound of it breaking would be delightful.

Her toy crawled after her as she meandered towards the exit. It had nothing left to lose, and everything to win, if she let it out. And so it mustered its final dredges of strength, the ones it had been saving to kill itself with, and it moved.

Would they write a book about it, when it escaped? What would they call it? The part of it that had protected itself with despair was drowned by clamoring voices.

Plastic surgery could fix it. They could give her (Her, yes her! She was a her, not an it!) new legs. She could be a cyborg! Her clawing became more determined, even though the agony in her left arm grew as the wires scraped her flesh, clawing their way into her body. She had not moved like this for years, she thought. At least, it felt like years. Who knew how long it had been?

Finally, they came upon a pair of double doors. She looked up at her Mistr- No! She was going to be free! That- That- She couldn't bring herself to cuss out Olive. Even the thought of disobedience made her bowels quiver. They emptied themselves then, sending the festering sores on her thighs awash with fire. The humiliation did not matter anymore. She and her dignity had parted ways long ago. No, all that mattered was the glimpse of green grass, of sweet summer air and flowers. Anything other than blood and rot.

“Too excited?” Olive smiled benevolently down at her toy. “How cute.” She pushed the door open.

“Aah,” her toy said, excitedly. It- She had almost forgotten how the outside world smelled. Her nostrils flapped with glee, and she crawled onto the mud. “Graa.”

Grass, she meant. Glorious, green grass. It was so bright. So very, very bright. She had forgotten what bright colours looked like. The only brightness in her life was red, like Olive's hair and her blood. Green was so much better. Greengreengreengreengreen. Was this a dream? Green rhymed with dream, after all, she reasoned. She had not had good dreams in a while. Maybe she would die in her sleep. Maybe this was the dream to which she would die in her sleep. Maybe-

A firm boot to the crotch made her gasp, a noise she had not made in months.

This had been a good idea, Olive decided. Her toy had never been so active at all. This was a good place to kill it, deep in the wilderness. Sure, the threat of being spotted was higher, but who would care about a piece of meat as mangled as that?

She spat on it, making it whimper. It began running- No, inching away. To stop it, she casually put her boot atop it and rested her body weight on it. The lovely crackle of broken bones emanated from it as it squirmed and squealed.

“What a noisy piece of meat,” Olive remarked. Grabbing a tuft of scraggly hair, she ripped the entire chunk of skin out. “Did you truly think I meant to release you? I suppose toys don't have brains, but this is silly, even for your standards.”

She grabbed its face and twisted it to look at her. Those maudlin eyes met hers. If Olive had had a heart, she would have wept to see the fierce despair in that gaze, and the strength. It was a survivor, stronger than she could ever have known. But it had fought too long, and Olive had not had a heart, and so it knew it would die.

It tore its eyes away from Olive and looked up at the brilliant blue sky. No, no matter what happened next, it had this moment. It had its summer air, and it had its grass, and it had the firm, deep knowledge that it would die being more than its torturer could ever hope to be.

***.

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